Shot
by cancelmyappointments
Summary: A small slashy fic based on BBC Sherlock. Sherlock tries to understand why he feels the way he does about John
1. Chapter 1

**artist's comments: Hello C: Thank you for taking the time to click on this I wrote this a little while ago and decided that I ought to upload it onto here.  
>I hope you enjoy it C:<br>**

Perhaps I should try to explain – though that is all I ever seem to do – where exactly upon I stand, if that makes sense.

I apologise in advance for readers that are keen to explore discourses that pertain mainly to solid fact; this piece of writing is not entirely appropriate to that approach, and after spending far too much time reading John's writing I seem to have inherited his habit of telling a story backwards.

As I alluded to earlier, I am explaining where I stand. Obviously, as you have little context, I could be standing on an upturned bath with a drawing of a bull pup on my head declaring that the end is nigh.

I am not.

I suppose by writing this, I am trying to explain John Watson to myself.

It is a part of my life I have never fully understood – and as one who's business it is to fully understand, this has left a small niggle firmly wedged into the pit of my mind, grinning at my lack of comprehension for it. Possibly if ever I have been short with John, it was this niggle that was bothering me at the time.

Meeting him was so commonplace, I had no cause for alarm. Besides the obvious deductions that I could make about his background, there was nothing to suggest to me that he would be particularly extraordinary in any way.

I can reminisce very easily about the first moment I knew we had developed an understanding that went beyond what I had originally planned.

The shock took me with such force that I still wobble when I think about it now.

He looked up at me, as he often does, with an unwavering gaze, standing amongst the tall grass of a meadow on one of our many jaunts into the countryside. His face was always so set and decisive in the expressions it choose to portray. This was one that I saw often – a mix of disbelief and admiration. Having just solved something that, to others, seemed entirely too complex a knot of thread to know where to start, it was no surprise to me that this was the feeling I had conjured within him, and I sat upon the grass allowing the sun to wash over me. John curled beside me, his head resting on my elbow; and there we lay, in perfect contentment for not a short amount of time.

This was a level of intimacy that I was not unfamiliar with, and became more frequent as time progressed. I must commend John, in an odd sort of way, for the fact that he chose to withheld this from his narrative – not because I think it inappropriate in any way, but how we felt toward one another had little to do with the bare facts.

Late morning sun amongst long, cool grass is one of the few true joys in this world. And evidently John felt a similar way, as after some time I began to notice a light snore shaking his body. I have never felt warmth or fondness within myself as I did at that moment looking upon his sleeping form. I have never experienced action without thought – if ever I do something it is for a particular reason – but at that moment, with nothing to justify it, I curled around him, my arm following the curve of his back and my lips gently brushed against his forehead.

Had I not been too flushed from recent success, I could have easily fallen asleep myself.

A sharp rush of surprise singed through my limbs as I felt his arms slide under my jacket in order to pull himself closer. It seemed I had woken him.

"You feel thin again," he mumbled, "we should walk back into town and find somewhere to get lunch."

Taking a long breath into my lungs and curling around him more, I said, "just a while longer. We'll stay here... just ten more minutes."

I felt him smile.

"But you promise that you will then eat something?"

"Mmmmm," I nodded slowly, eyes still shut.

Over those ten minutes I tried to figure out what it was we were trying to achieve with this level of intimacy. It was like John had eked away a little ledge for him to curl up in over the years that we knew each other.

It started with a smile; then maybe a pat on the shoulder; a hug.

And now we're here, wrapped around one another like children, in the English countryside.

One of the few moments of my life that could ever be described as 'idyllic'.

And who else could I do this with other than John Watson?

So it was then, from legs and arms interlocked, that I knew I could never allow him to tread through life without me.


	2. Chapter 2

**artist's comments: thank you for the nice review C:  
>hope you enjoy this chapter too :D<strong>

What?

Wait, what; what is this?

I can't think but...

But I can always think.

When all else fails it is the sole thing that still functions.

I still had the offending item in my hand that had rendered me useless. A note, short and sweet; though far too terse and too jagged to drag through any thought processes.

'John is most definitely alive – though I can't guarantee that that will last very much longer - he does rather struggle, but I imagine that would be the army training. Shall have to figure out a means of dampening his spirit.

These are the sparks; let us see how quickly your heart ignites.

And I give no clue as to where we are – you're clever, figure it out.  
>- M'<p>

No other possible combination of words could have offended me more; it was as though someone had shot me through the chest, forcing my body to reel forward from the impact of the shock. Furniture, cutlery, life fell aside, to make way for my form loosing balance momentarily and I fell to my knees.

But my brain tried to do as always and assess the situation; pick on any minor detail that could perhaps yield hope. I thrust the envelope and the note within before my eyes in order to complete a full survey of them; scanned them; obsessed over them. Any detail, no matter how minor was scrutinised, but ugh! I could not function – all the while I was trying to work I could not help but linger over the state John might be in. Incapable of utilising my own line of work was humiliating. I was left to lie on the floor, my knees hugged to my chest and try to move; try to think what to do next.

Just make the panic recede a little from my chest.

Cold.

Yes, it was cold.

There are many abandoned buildings in London, and after analysing some of the dirt I found in the envelope (a clue I suspected – after my small panic attack I managed to get my head together and do something of actual worth) I was able to tell which part of London it was likely to be from. I say 'likely', generally I'm right. I knew Moriarty, it was his compulsion to make large statements, so I was able to assume that he would pick something rather ostentatious, but equally it would have to be something not very accessible to the general public.

We wouldn't want to be disturbed now, would we?

And so it was I found myself wandering London in an area where disused factories were rampant. I knew I wasn't at my personal best, but I had to try my hardest to look for any clues that might help find John; after all, I would be the only person capable of doing so.

"Sherlock!"

My heart gave a sharp twinge as I felt John's voice echo through the concrete. But his speech was muffled – evidently he was not meant to be making so much noise, and people were having to go to great effort to keep him silent. It came from behind – definitely behind.

I broke into a run, ignoring any slight wobbles as my feet slipped over the rubble and fractured concrete. I just knew that I had to get there – get there and reclaim what was mine. Slamming through a fetid door, I came upon James Moriarty with a pistol gently running the length of John's head.

A pregnant pause settled heavily into the room – but with his head snaking and grinning through the air towards me.

"Sooooooo, little Sherlock finally made it to the party. It's a good thing you're here, John and I were starting to run out of interesting things to say to one another; weren't we sweetie?" He tapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun.

The look of contempt John shot back at him through bruised eyes almost made me smile – he couldn't possibly be too badly injured if he was still able to make that face.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked cautiously, "it's not like you've presented me with something particularly difficult to figure out – so what is this achieving."

He smiled and inhaled slowly, "the thing about you Sherlock, is that you don't panic. And, generally, that is one of the things that I am very good at doing – creating chaos, making people do what you can't.

"But just from watching you; watching where you watch. Well... what do you think I deduced? What do you think it was that I saw? The one thing that you can't take your eyes off?"

The malice spread through his face in a way that he evidently found gratifying as he watched my brain digest what he was saying.

Yes, I suppose I did look at John a lot – but we were close, and I have never been close to anyone before. I suppose it shows my naïvety in that I couldn't pull my eyes away from him.

"I should write the book 'How to make the Great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes Panic' – though you could hardly call something that is only a page long a book," he gloated.

"What do you want?" I growled.

"Just to see. See what your face does when I do cause it to panic," he smirked. "I do like to know things about you – you are so very fascinating.

"For example, what would you do if I shot John in the knee? Right now? Just, bang! Bullet in your leg!

"I wonder what face you'd make."

He swung the gun down to the top of John's knee cap, and as his hand tensed, it seemed my brain, in it's new state of panic, was unable to think of a better course of action than the one I took. Leaping forward, I forced the full weight if my body onto Moriarty sending us both flying to the ground.

But I heard the shot.

My plan hadn't worked, and I whirled my head around to see if John was unharmed. It had missed, he was fine – what struck me with surprise was the sheer look of horror etched deeply into his face as he looked down at us. What had caused him such alarm.

And then I felt it – the warm blood seeping through my shirt; the searing pain soaring through my arm. It was true that the gun had missed John, but it had hit me point-blank in the top of the shoulder.

I felt sick – the pain, once I realised it was there, rattled through my body with vehement ardour. I fell to the side clutching myself, caring very little that Moriarty had began to pull himself away from my quaking form. Fright caused me to start, as within seconds of him moving, a shoe collided heavily with his face. John's foot sent Moriarty's head lolling to the ground with an arc of blood close behind it.

John's bonds must have been tied a little too loose.

"Sherlock!" He knelt beside me, "oh God, you've been shot! Sherlock."

Cradling my body in his arms he pulled me closer and started to run fingers through my hair.

"You're an army doctor, John. I was relying on the fact that if and when this did happen, of all the people I knew you wouldn't panic and would actually be useful." I replied.

He smiled through tears "just stay awake; don't shut your eyes, try and stay with me. Sherlock, please, stay with me, I promise I'll do all I can, but just stay awake."

"John," I said with my eyes shut, "you've been shot before, surely you know how difficult that is."

He let out a small laugh and said something in reply; what that was I can never remember (and for some reason he won't tell me), because by that point I was gone; semi-conscious, unable to do, think or say anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**artist's comments: this was originally the last chapter (I wrote this a while back) but someone pointed out a very good thing to me. What happened to Moriarty. So I will be writing more of this, but I'm not sure how soon that will be :/**

**thank you so much for the really lovely reviews C:**

"Perhaps next time you shouldn't jump in front of a gun?" John smiled at me warmly, "though far be it from me to give the consulting detective the advice."

I allowed myself a laugh. "Yes, I rather think you're right – it was not the most pleasant experience in the world. And the after-effects are simply ghastly."

I was confined to either bed or sofa at home – and John, in a feeling that I knew was well meant, had stuck me in front of the television.

Dull.

Dull, dull, dull.

Just, ugh.

Why are these people considered interesting enough to be given timeslots; and people actually watch this? People are interested in what they have to say?

Needless to say I was encased in veil of hate. But I knew if I so much as moved, not only would I be shouted at by John, but I could actually make my shoulder worse; and seeing as I need this arm, the best thing to do was put up with the dreary existence. Do consulting detectives really need both arms?

That's a stupid question, Sherlock, you can highlight many examples to yourself where the situation would have been far worse had you not had both your arms. Must remember to check over our light-fittings...

I am meandering from my narrative.

It was odd, being the invalid. While it is well documented that at times I barely look after myself, generally I am in good health. But it seemed now that John was taking this as the prime opportunity to 'mother me', for want of a better phrase.

Routinely I was brought tea; maybe a book; food; just something he thought I might find interesting or funny (when do I find things funny?).

Evidently getting shot in the shoulder renders one's legs incapable also. I doubted I'd ever eaten so much and done so little over the same period ever in my lifetime. The trouble was, I suppose, I had spent too much time with John – and in an odd way, it pained me to see him upset that I hadn't at least tried what he had made for me. As I am never in a position where other people getting upset has the same effect on me, I am not sure how to deal with it.

So I'll just sit here and get fat.

God, I am picturing a chubby version of myself trying to vault over roofs etc., like I have been doing for many a year. I'm going to have to stop him.

Yet again, I am wandering from the purpose of my narrative.

Possibly because I am unsure how to describe it, or because I am unsure where to start.

Because things never really 'start', per se, they occur as moments in themselves, but they are always in relation to something else (similarly things never exactly 'end' either – these are concepts devised by human narrative).

John had sat beside me, as he often does, later on in the evening when he had run out of things to pass the time with. He seems to think letting his brain stagnate in front of the television is a perfectly valid thing to do, rather than taking the time to expand his knowledge into fields that could possibly be useful.

Anyway, as I alluded to earlier, we were doing this 'sitting beside each other' thing that normal people, I'm told, do. Um, it's difficult to know what to say next really; I guess I was dozing, being that I had had an entirely pointless day, my head managed to somehow find its way to his shoulder. Having decided that this was a comfortable spot to be in, it stayed there, without a word; I didn't even realise that I was doing it.

After an amount of time (I'm sorry I can't be more specific – I was half-asleep after all), John seemed to wriggle a bit and say, "ummm, Sherlock... you're, m, my shoulder. You're on my shoulder."

"Oh... sorry... I'll move."

"No! Oh... no, I was just making sure you knew."

"Remember who you're talking to, John." I smiled and curled up further around his arm.

He reciprocated, and I felt a cheek snuggle onto the top of my head. It was a warm moment, and I was reminded very succinctly why I am so fond of John.

John.

His name is so dull it makes me smile.

Arcing my head up I could almost taste his neck.

And then a very odd thing happened – something that had never happened to me before.

I felt a firm hand slip up my thigh, tense when it came the top and stop, awaiting validation. A small shock ran up my body, and I sat back to get a look at his face. There was nothing said – what could be said? In an odd compulsion, I ran my hand up his chest and around his neck.

There was an unplanned sequence of events that just seemed to know that they were happening before we did.

Clothes were pulled off; limbs entwined; noises came from my mouth that I didn't know it could make. It didn't take much persuasion from John before I was flat on my back at his mercy.

"John!"

I'm never sure whether I should be embarrassed by this or not (but people tend to treat me like I should be when they find out), but you could never describe me as 'experienced' in this sort of area – so I don't know how to react. But every noise that escaped from my mouth seemed to spur John on even harder.

"What is this!"

I couldn't digest who it could possibly be that had come upon us, all I could do was cover anything that might be showing.

Mycroft's scowling demeanour is by far the most effective way of killing any mood.

"What on earth are you two doing?" His indigence rang through the room, pulling me back to my senses.

"How on earth did you get into our flat!" I barked. "Acting so ashamed and shocked, we can do as we please in our own house."

I won't bore you with the details; Mycroft and I have had many an argument. The only difference with this one was that I stalked about the room yelling at him for rather a long time before remembering that I was barely wearing anything.

John just sat there with his hands between his knees, looking up at Mycroft like we were teens caught doing something we shouldn't have.

It was funny though, in retrospect.

I was glad it happened.

I was even glad that Mycroft had caught us.

How else could I have realised how important a moment of my life it was, if I hadn't had to argue why moments later.


End file.
